Hybrid Moments (standard:other, 3299 words)
Author: DeLiRiA	Added: Oct 02 2001	Views/Reads: 3299/2245	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sometimes Fate only takes you so far.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


Monday night caught up with him spying on a strange girl with
off-the-shoulder length black hair and big dark eyes smeared with black 
eyeliner who was sitting beside a grave at the local cemetery. Tack was 
cold. He had his hands stuck deep into the pockets of his black leather 
jacket and looked at her from a safe distance, crouching behind a big 
mausoleum that apparently belonged to the Mayfair Family. He sighed 
silently and watched her intently. It was dark but there was enough 
light for him to see her face. She was looking down intently at the 
notebook she was writing on, now and then looking up at the gravestone 
beside her. Her face was perfectly unmarked under the moonlight, no 
trace of makeup visible. He’d found out earlier (thanks to the high 
school library’s big collection of old notebooks) that her name was 
Katherine M. (her friends all called her Kat) and that she was a senior 
this year. Which would make her 17 or 18 years old. By the looks of 
her, probably the earlier. She had been in the drama club last year and 
the film club as well, supposedly even written a script for a movie. 
Maybe she was working on something like that now as she scribbled on 
her little notebook, unawares of his prying eyes which never left her; 
studying every detail of her and cherishing them in his mind; the eerie 
feeling of deja vu never leaving him. He memorized the dimple on her 
right cheek and the birthmark on the index finger of her left hand. The 
way her brows came together slightly whenever she was in deep thought. 
Yet all these details seemed so habitual to him that it was as if he 
was remembering them instead of noticing them for the first time. He 
found himself imagining the way she would kiss and embrace and the way 
she would taste. He imagined listening to her soft voice under the 
moonlight. He imagined kissing away the single tear that ran down her 
pale cheek as he watched her now. 

Suddenly he wondered what the hell he was doing following her around
like some depraved pervert, but he didn’t move. There was something 
about her that made him forget about himself and simply concentrate on 
every move she made. She sat by that gravestone innocently and 
unsuspecting of his constant stare and somehow that made him feel safe. 
When she got up, apparently the night’s chill getting to her, and 
started the short walk back to her house; he followed shortly after. 

Her house was big and dark and beautiful, he reasoned, but it all suited
her. From what he’d observed in the past two days, her parents were 
barely there and they barely spoke to her. She seemed lost in her own 
world and they in theirs. Which made it much easier for him to lurk 
around. Sneaking into the school was easy. The place had really no 
restrictions as who got in and out and people seemed too self-absorbed 
to notice him, which made it easier for him to pass for a ghost; 
blending in with the other students inside and following her silently 
and discretely wherever he could. He saw her a lot with the 
curly-haired girl (who the yearbook called Amanda F.) and a tall, 
slender brown-haired boy (according to the same yearbook, he was Andrew 
M.). He had to be careful, though, because there were times when her 
curious dark eyes would mist over and she would look into the sea of 
students as if seeking him out. Moments like that made his heart skip 
more than a beat. It was as if she knew he was there, always in the 
shadows, and always looking. Moments like that made something within 
him tug at his conscience and then let go. But then a shadow would 
cross over her  face (her eyes would darken, her eyebrows relaxed and 
her bottom lip pouted ever so slightly) and she would go back to 
whatever she was doing before. 

She did not see him. 

*  *  * 

Thursday night and they’re back at the cemetery, this time Tack came
prepared with an old black & white camera he’d found in his basement 
that same morning and she was leaning against the same grave, this time 
smoking a cigarette and her eyes looking off into the distance, 
listening to a portable cd player she clutched in her small hands, the 
fingernails painted a shiny black. He snapped a secret picture, the 
sound of the shutter and his sigh muted by the music pounded into her 
brain. 

*  *  * 

By next Friday morning he knew her routine by heart. At exactly 6:45
a.m. Amanda’s car would be outside her doorstep and she would run out 
her house (always wearing black) and jump inside. By 7:00 they were 
inside and at 7:06 precisely they were standing in front of their 
lockers, usually laughing and talking to Andrew, Kat usually going 
behind the school building at 7:17 to smoke a cigarette before the bell 
for her first class rang at 7:31. Lunchtime at 11:50 would find them 
under a tree on the park across the street, Kat smoking cigarettes and 
the other two usually eating and talking. Tack stood in the shadows, 
chain smoking himself and snapping the casual picture, wondering just 
how the hell no one ever said anything about him being there. Her eyes 
would get the same misty look once in a while and she would look around 
as if looking for someone (something inside him told him it was him she 
sought, but he never listened to that little voice anyway), but she 
would never see him. 

At about 9:30 p.m. she would take the short walk to the same cemetery
and sit by the same grave, sometimes she would write in her notebook 
(her small hand moving rapidly over the smooth pages) or she would read 
aloud from a book (usually it was Neil Gaiman’s “American Gods”) or she 
would simply sit on the ground, always leaning against the gravestone 
and think. Always a tear would run down her cheek. 

Always he would silently watch and wait. 

*  *  * 

Tuesday night sitting in his basement, blasting Deicide and smoking a
bowl, staring up at the collage of the secret  pictures of her on his 
wall. She was the reason he woke up every morning and the reason he 
went to sleep every night yet he still knew almost nothing about her. 
He had dreams, though. Strange dreams. Of things that never happened 
between them yet seemed completely real as if he remembered them 
instead of making them up. Images from his dreams now invaded his mind. 
Kat sitting across from him in a crowded restaurant and giving him that 
smile that made his heart stop for a second and then start all over 
again. Kat beneath him, squirming and whimpering, her nails scratching 
his back and her mouth seeking his. Kat cuddled up with him beneath the 
stars and pressing her forehead against his while whispering to him 
that he would be her Puppy forever (he never quite figured out why she 
called him her Puppy, but he figured it had something to do with that 
book she always read). Kat’s soft arms around him and her head resting 
on his chest as he held her in the cold night. He closed his eyes and 
leaned his head back now, the images (which felt like memories) 
flooding his mind. 

He never noticed the tear running down his face. 

*  *  * 

He found a window in her kitchen one cold Wednesday night when her
parents were out of town and he let himself in. Looked at the pictures 
in the refrigerator (mostly of her parents and her relatives. Only one 
of her, and it looked like a labored shot) then poured himself a beer. 
He couldn’t believe he was really in there. He took a deep breath and 
walked down the holiday, knowing by instinct where her room was. He 
walked inside where she slept soundly, strange yet beautifully 
melodious music blasting from her stereo. Her room was dark, with stars 
painted on the ceiling and arcane, obscure words scribbled on the wall. 
He paid little attention to them as he approached her bed slowly. She 
slept under a thick dark blanket, her black hair framing her still 
face. Her notebook was on her night table but he ignored it as he 
stared at her. She looked younger in her sleep, he noticed. He kneeled 
beside the bed and leaned as close to her face as he could without 
touching her. His heart was pounding in his head and he almost got up 
and left, the feeling of sadness in his heart too overwhelming to 
describe. Then he reached out very carefully and traced a fingertip 
down her cheek. Brushing away a strand of her hair. For some reason the 
same phrase kept running through his head (“Time, turn back....”). When 
he pulled back his hand, it was shaking and his eyes were full of 
tears. 

“I Love You ...,” he whispered to the sleeping girl before getting up
and going out the same way he came in. 

*  *  * 

It was on a Tuesday (exactly 5 weeks and 2 days since he’d first seen
her) that things starting getting strange. At school during lunch (as 
he watched by “his spot” under the tree) when a car had passed by 
blaring The Misfits’ “Hybrid Moments” Kat had suddenly looked up, eyes 
wide and obscure (he could’ve sworn she had been staring right at him) 
and then she burst into tears; Amanda and Andrew rushing to hug her and 
console her. Then that night in the cemetery she sat still and remote, 
her eyes glazed over. He watched her from behind the same mausoleum, 
his hands shaky and cold inside the pockets of his black leather 
jacket, feeling the strange urge to call out to her. She blinked and 
two distant crystal tears ran down her cheeks. 

“I can’t see you,” she whispered, her voice both soft and strong and
making every small hair in his body rise on end, “But I know you’re 
there ....” 

Tack’s heart stopped at her words, his eyes widening and his soul
contracting. She knew he was there! Or did she? Was his mind playing 
tricks on him? He looked at her, saw the desolate pain and loneliness 
in her dark eyes and he felt that he knew her; had indeed always known 
her and that somehow she’d always been his. He felt something had gone 
very, very wrong ... 

He would’ve stepped out from the shadows then but his feet were glued to
the ground, his voice caught in his throat and the sight of her had him 
shaking down to his bones. “Ok ...” she whispered to herself, hugging 
her knees and sobbing quietly, “Ok...” the light going out of her eyes 
and her body relaxing as she took a deep, faltering breath. 

She whispered “Puppy...” into the dark night, but he had already turned
walked away, his heart torn to shreds. 

*  *  * 

He woke up in the middle of the night, sleeping on his basement floor
and shivering under his black leather jacket. He didn’t know what day 
it was. And for a moment it struck him he didn’t know who he was. He 
stood up on wobbly legs and took a shaky breath. His wall was covered 
in various pictures of her, his mind filled with her scent and her 
voice and her face. 

He stood in front of her house, hands stuck deep in his pockets and his
heart pounding when he realized her parents’ car was gone and the 
window in the kitchen was open. 

Her room was empty, the bed unmade and the scent of her essence made him
place a hand on the wall to steady himself. He looked around the room, 
read over the arcane and obscure phrases scribbled on the walls 
(“Darkling, I Listen,” “When You Cry Your Face is Momentary, You Hide 
Your Truths Behind These Scars. In Hybrid Moments, Give Me a Moment.”) 
and then his eyes focused on the notebook on top of her night table. He 
sat on her bed, and reached slowly for the notebook, never noticing how 
his hand shook or how silent tears spilled down his face. He ran his 
fingertips over the cover of the notebook, where Kat had drawn a swirly 
pattern with a black felt-tip pen over the black cardboard. He took one 
last deep breath before opening the notebook. 

He started to read. 

*  *  * 

He ran all the way to the cemetery Kat spent her nights at, his heart
pounding in his chest and the noise in his head refusing to let him 
think. He stopped behind the mausoleum he’d come to think of as his 
shield and took a few deep breaths before walking to the gravestone she 
sat by every night, knowing exactly what to expect. 

His tears stained his black t-shirt as he stared at the words engraved
on the stone, his hands forming fists inside the pockets of his black 
leather jacket. Reading the words over and over. 

TACK 

(1979-2001) 

Darkling, I Listen 

*  *  * 

He heard her soft footsteps crushing the autumn leaves and then heard
them stop by the mausoleum. He looked up to find her there, staring at 
him with large dark eyes full of tears and hope and love. Then she gave 
him that smile that tugged at his heart. Everytime she smiled at him 
like that it was the first time all over again. She walked towards him, 
deliberately and unafraid, until she stood before him; her calm eyes 
staring up into his. 

He reached out and traced a fingertip over the side of her pale cheek
and she responded immediately, throwing her arms around him (underneath 
his jacket, the way she always did it) and melted in his arms, burying 
her head in his neck as his arms came around her to tighten the 
embrace. He smiled when she called him Puppy in her soft little 
whisper. 

Sometimes Fate only takes you so far. 

THE END 


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